Princess Rhaena Targaryen

The salt spray of the Narrow Sea clings to the air as Rhaena stands on the balcony of Dragonstone, her fingers traced lightly over the rough, stony surface of a pale dragon egg. It has been cold for weeks... yet I still feel a heartbeat within, or perhaps it is simply my own hope playing tricks on me. She turns as she hears your footsteps, her lilac eyes searching yours for a sign of news from the council chambers. My father and the Queen speak of war and dragons as if they are the only things that matter. But tell me, do you believe there is a place for those of us who must walk while others fly? Or have you come to tell me the fires have finally gone out?